Coming out into the living room, she went over to the stove and put a frying pan on the burner. From the refrigerator she removed an egg and a piece of ham, and cooked them in the pan. With her plate of food and a glass of instant iced tea, she sat down in one of the wicker chairs and had just begun to eat when the telephone rang again. The ring was so loud and startling that her heart fell, and she frowned slightly as she picked up the receiver.
“Mimi?”
“It almost ruptured my eardrums.”
The man laughed. He knew how loud army phones could be. “What are you doing?”
“Just eating my dinner.”
“Sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.”
“What promise?”
“To take you to China Beach yesterday. But you’d forgotten, so I shouldn’t have reminded you.”
Hae Jong paused for a second and then spoke in a low, scolding tone. “You can forget promises like that. But you can’t forget my passport. Do you mean to leave me stranded here like food on a refrigerator shelf?”
“No, it’s just that I was swamped with work today. I had to go to some official ceremony with my boss. The meeting will be over soon, so I’ll drop by.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Hae Jong stood there absentmindedly with the receiver in hand. They had known each other for about two months. He used to sit next to her on the PX commuter bus. Asian prostitutes who’ve had any experience with white men hardly consider Asian men as equals, and she was no different. She remembered too well the faces of Korean soldiers who had cast scornful looks at her whenever they saw her with Jerry or Thomas, or especially when she was with James, even as they behaved submissively toward the Americans with her.
If it had been her choice she would never have sat down next to that Vietnamese officer. He had boarded the bus with an American navy officer. It happened that the seats beside and across from Hae Jong had been unoccupied, and the two of them had walked down the aisle and taken those two places. She was dressed in a white blouse and black skirt befitting an office worker. The officer beside her turned to her and tried to strike up a conversation in Vietnamese. Hae Jong at first pretended not to hear and kept her eyes fixed on the window. When the officer again turned to her and said something, she had answered politely in English, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Vietnamese.”
“Ah, right. Maybe I speak your language. Chinese? Or, from Singapore?”
“I’m an administrative employee of the US Army.”
“That much I know. My name’s Pham Quyen. I’m at the army headquarters. People tend to look down on those in adverse circumstances — is that how you see the Vietnamese?”
“I don’t look down on them. I’m just tired and want to be left alone.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just that a maiden among uniforms is as blindingly beautiful as a rose in an empty room.”
At these words, Hae Jong turned and looked at him. Unlike most Vietnamese men, he was well built with a strong chin. He was smiling and the tiny wrinkles gathered gently around the corners of his eyes reminded her of Jerry when he used to teach her English.
“Where do you live?”
“I board in a private home.”
“Where?”
“On Puohung Street.”
“That’s near where I live.”
Hae Jong felt a little annoyed, but also somewhat reassured. Her prim and proper days were long gone. For six months she had been living in a room rented from the family of a Vietnamese girl she worked with at the PX. On weekends she went out to clubs or to the beach with an American civilian administrator who came to the house to call on her friend, Chin Pei. Sometimes she slept with them. But, of course, she did not take money. Instead, PX vehicles would drop off ration-controlled items at Chin Pei’s house. Chin Pei’s father would sell the goods, for a little commission, at three times the original price. Hae Jong changed her profits into military money orders and saved them.
The money orders with their eagle imprints were as good as dollars everywhere in the world where there are American troops. Hae Jong needed money. Back in Korea waiting for her return were her mother and two younger siblings, who had been eking out a precarious living running a hole-in-the-wall shop in a small town. Perhaps she would never live with them again. Probably she would go back to Uijeongbu or to the Dongducheon army base. She might buy a small club, or run an inn. Who knows, she might even cross the ocean to James’s country.
Hae Jong often suffered from insomnia. In the beginning she drank bourbon and coke. Then Chin Pei’s father introduced her to a more effective sedative. On days when he returned home after selling PX goods, he always hopped up onto a wooden bunk on the back porch cradling a hemp cushion in his arms. His old wife would wait on him, bringing his pipe, and while the two smoked they looked like the happiest couple in the world.
From the start she knew that the stuff burning in the bowl of the long pipe was not tobacco. They took a golden brown clay-like substance out of a plastic pouch and rolled it into balls in their palms, placed it on a beer bottle cap and cooked it over charcoal, then emptied the contents into the pipe. The smell of burning opium reminded her of burning hay, not at all unpleasant. Their eyes became distant and dreamy and their fingers limply swayed.
At their suggestion, Hae Jong had tried a pipe in her room. It felt at first like her joints and spine were melting away. Then the bed began to fall and it kept falling downward endlessly. It was a calm darkness, bottomless and boundless. It was a journey like that of a single reed swept away on the waves, caught on and then broken free from obstacles and riding the crest of strong waves, jolting against this and that as it drifted onward, then finally floating lazily over the quietly rippling surface of a broad lake.
Those trips took Hae Jong away from Vietnam and Uijeongbu. From time to time she went on them with clerks she knew from work. Worn-out soldiers often indulged in smoking opium, which they found much more satisfying than marijuana. Opium was perfect for those soaked monsoon nights when steamy rain fell all night long. Maybe opium was just the right thing for the torrid climate of Vietnam, with its insects and lizards. Smoking raw opium was much slower than injecting the refined white powder mixed with distilled water into your veins, but it was also less dangerous. The heroin came from Vientiane and Cholon while the raw opium came from Burma and the frontier with Laos. In the Central Highlands of Vietnam there were high hills where poppy fields stretched out for miles.
The Turkish baths and most of the hotels in Da Nang offered opium dens, and the same was true of many of the military barracks. Any Vietnamese could buy opium in the back alleys of the old market in amounts ranging from a matchbox full to a slab as big as a candy bar. The price of heroin, according to the GIs, was one-tenth of the stateside price. Not long before, an officer had discovered a GI blown away from smoking heroine in the barracks. His report was turned over to PX security, who tracked the scent back to Chin Pei’s house, where MPs searched Mimi’s room. In her closet they found opium and a pipe.
The security officers treated the case with some caution, for Mimi, after all, was a temporary civil servant of the American government. Had she been Vietnamese they would have turned her over to the national police and she would have forfeited all pending salary and severance pay. But Mimi, being an alien as well as a beauty, got off with just being fired and having the Korean embassy notified that she had lost her job and thus her right to remain in Vietnam. The embassy had ordered her immediate departure, but she had stayed past the deadline and was now subject to deportation.